Here's the next page from my book of 288 Drawing Prompts. (The previous page appeared in the middle of May.) The prompt for this present drawing was "Field of sunflowers".
Dear diary,
Events are so scary here in the real world that I don’t even wanna talk about them. I just wanna flee to a place where things matter, and the best way I know to do that is by writing a silly story. So here’s my story:
How the Cop and the Robber Met and Became Best Friends
Act I
Once upon a time there was a street brawl. All the globe was one country, with one culture; and two gangs ruled it: the Art Critics, on one hand, and, on the other, their rival gang: the Corporate Multinationals. Now, just to be clear, our story’s two heroes come from these two gangs: the cop was the handsomest member of the Art Critics gang, and the robber was the most beautiful woman in the Corporate Multinationals.
So, like I said, our story begins with a global street brawl between the Art Critics and the Corporate Multinationals (by the way, if you’re wondering how it could make sense for a globe that consists of one single nation to have a branch of its ruling duopoly refer to itself as “multinational”, the answer is that these gangsters made a name for themselves by starting a trade war with extraterrestrials). Now, since street brawls are bad for business, especially countrywide brawls when your planet is a Grand Unified Country, one of the goons of the Secret Government stepped out from the shadows and addressed the clashing gangs:
“Guys, please, break it up.”
So the gangs go home and everything’s peaceful for a spell.
Now we zoom in on the headquarters of the Art Critics, and we view a touching scene between the father figure of that gang, Doctor Samuel Johnson, and his son the Cop (this Cop is one of our story’s two heroes). Doctor Johnson sez:
“My dear son, I have news for you. Earlier today the doorbell rang, and, after the butler answered it, he came back to inform me that Helen of Troy was at the entryway; so I said to the butler, ‘What do you think she wants?’; and the butler went back to the door and inquired after the reason for her visit, and she informed him that she came to request the hand of Doctor Johnson’s son in marriage. (That’s you, dear Cop.) So I told the butler to give a noncommittal response — that way, we can choose, later, to answer either ‘yes’ or ‘no’ officially, and it won’t seem like we’ve broken any promises. But I’m leaning towards acceptance, therefore beware: I shall probably end up arranging this marriage for you. I’ve got the paperwork right here — Helen faxed it over about three quarters of an hour after the butler dismissed her. This damsel means business. Now I think you should be happy that I’m inclined to seal your destiny in this manner, because you are young and handsome and unwed; and, among those traits, the ‘young’ and the ‘handsome’ parts are very good, but the ‘unwed’ part is evil: we need to fix that; and this is the perfect opportunity to do so. For what more can a man want from marriage but basically eye-candy; and Helen of Troy is purportedly gorgeous: she is full-figured and has very pretty hair — that’s how I imagine her. — Now what do you say about this looming possibility of courtship? My dear boy, wake up!”
“I’m not sleeping, father,” sez the Cop; “I was just closing my eyes while listening, in order to more perfectly imagine the charms of this Helen of Troy that you’ve threatened to feed me to…”
“I’m not feeding you to anyone, dear boy,” sez Doctor Johnson; “that word feeding makes one think of masticating and digestion, which concepts, when it comes to planning a family, are beyond the pale. I would not object if you had used the word ‘shackle’, or—”
“Fine, father! then I say: the reason mine eyes were closed is on account of this woman that you’re planning to shackle me to: I was simply trying to remember what she actually looks like, cuz I agree, marriage is important: one should never take the plunge without being in puppy-love. And puppy-love can be sparked by a first impression of any person’s physical appearance. And it can be bolstered by sit-down dates at a dimly lit restaurant. And I think I’ve seen this woman & maybe even dined with her in the past.”
“So how do you feel about having Helen of Troy as a future wife?” sez Doctor Johnson. “Do you think you can force yourself to fall madly in love with her?”
“I’ll tell you the truth, dad,” answers the Cop: “when I think about Helen — at least when I consider what I believe about her from all those old books that I have read between the lines of — when I try to envision what it would be like to spend the rest of my life with her (baking cookies together, speeding down water-slides together), I have half a mind to smile, and half a mind to frown. What I’m saying is this: I need to think about it more, before I decide whether I shall go along with your dictate. I need to decide whether this is worth rebelling about. — Tell ya what: Later this afternoon, I have a session with Anna, my alienist. I’ll let you know how that turns out. Maybe we can also argue further at the Big Ball next Saturday.”
Thus ends the touching scene between the Cop and his father figure.
Act 1.2
So the afternoon follows the morning, and Anna’s conference with the Cop convinces him just to accept his doom. So, when the Cop returns to Doctor Johnson, he tells him that he can expect a faithful son and not a wild hippie scumbag: in other words, he will obey authority. He will accept Helen’s courtship, if that’s what Doctor Samuel Johnson prescribes.
Act 1.3
Now let’s take our leave of the Art Critic Gang, cuz they’re starting to bore us. Let’s go see what’s happening on the other side of town, outside the mansion of the Corporate Multinationals:
Here we have a scene of crisp, feisty dialogue between a character named First Folio and our story’s true hero, Mrs. Evilman the Cat-burglar, who plays the role of the Robber in our production.
FIRST FOLIO: “What’s wrong, Robber?”
ROBBER: “I’m sad because my love doesn’t love me back proportionately.”
FIRST FOLIO: “What! That’s impossible! You’re the shiniest light in the starfield of cat-burglars! God himself even nicknamed you ‘Sex Kitten’, when he created you, for Christ’s sake! I’ll quote the chapter and verse, if you disbelieve me!”
ROBBER: “No, I trust every word that you say, my dear First Folio. But this man I’m currently infatuated with — his name is Marcel Duchamp — will not accept any of my advances. I tried to visit his residence this morning, but his butler blew me off. So I faxed over an official proposal of marriage, but I haven’t heard back yet, and it’s been more than an hour. To pass the time, I went to the market to sniff all the fruit and pocket the items that appeal to me (without paying, of course) and I think I might have even seen my true love standing near the glazier, looking to buy some large glass for this project he’s working on (I know everything about him because I follow him on the Internet), and he seemed to have tried to avoid me, because, upon my approach, when I locked eyes with him, he gasped and forthwith dashed into the phone-booth, which was just a few paces away from where he had been standing; and when he came out of the booth, he was incognito — dressed up as a female, in fact — so I introduced myself to this damsel and asked her ‘Did you happen see the artist Marcel Duchamp in this marketplace today? For I greatly admire his work, and I long to meet him.’ The damsel answered: ‘My name is not Marcel Duchamp, my name is now Rrose Sélavy (pronounced Eros, c’est la vie, and yes the double ‘R’ is intentional); therefore do not seek my hand in marriage; for I shall prove untrue, and you will be compelled to divorce me. May I suggest that you go hunt down someone else, perhaps some Cop who is more compatible with your… eccentricities?’ And if you would’ve heard how she accentuated that last word, and how she indulged in such a pregnant pause before voicing it, you too would have red eyes from weeping all the way home from the marketplace.”
FIRST FOLIO: “I am sorry to hear that your heart is broken because your favorite artist is the wrong sex and died before you were born, my dear Mrs. Evilman…”
ROBBER: “Please, call me Robber.”
FIRST FOLIO: “Oops, I forgot — sorry, my dear Mrs. Robber… But I advise you to write off these old love-wounds with new business (in the words of Lucretious, as translated by Anthony M. Esolen) — forget about that old foolish bride or bachelor: Stroll after a street-strolling trollop and cure yourself!”
Act II
So Saturday rolls forward and drops its Big Ball right on the face of reality. (A ball is a social event like a hoedown or shindig, similar to the square-dance where you & I met during the last apocalypse, gentle reader.) And the Cop and the Robber — the two heroes of our story — attend this Big Ball.
Now the Cop is dancing with Helen of Troy at the moment, and the Robber manages to steal a dance with Duchamp; but then the two couples collide and there is a mix-up: Helen and Rrose (Duchamp’s feminine aspect) go dancing off in one direction, grabassing and French-kissing, and the Cop and the Robber find themselves in a stately posture, waltzing thru the ballroom with grace and poise:
The Cop sez to the Robber, “Hello there; it looks like we somehow ended up together after our dancing partners ditched us.”
& the Robber sez to the Cop, “I’m kinda relieved, to speak honestly; I’m really not that ambitious, so the hunt for true love exhausts me.” Then she tilts her head & squints: “Yeah... I can see myself settling for you.”
The Cop gives the Robber a peck on the cheek.
Act 2.2
Now the Cop’s father figure, Doctor Samuel Johnson, is watching from the sidelines, wearing a t-shirt that sez: “Real Critix Don’t Dance”; & when he sees his son the Cop give this naughty Robber a kiss, he is enraged. He grabs his bullhorn and shouts into it various accusations. According to his sworn testimony, the Robber actually was not mailed an official summons to this Ball but rather snuck in uninvited:
“Get her outta here,” yells Doctor Johnson. “Lock! Her! Up!”
Samuel Johnson is only stopped from killing his son’s new love by the latter’s kinsman First Folio, who claims that the only reason he intervened to stop this crime (since crime prevention is rather the hobbyhorse of the Art Critics Gang and properly no concern to his own proud Corporate Multinationals) is that he does not wish to get any blood on his pages.
[The joke is that “folio” is a term for a book that is made by folding sheets of parchment just once & then arranging them into a codex.]
Act 2.3
After the ball, in what is now called the “balcony scene”, the Robber sneaks into the third precinct and overhears the Cop talking to his Captain in the evidence room:
The Cop sez that he wants to quit the Police Force because he’s grown infatuated with a run-of-the-mill cat-burglar, and he knows that such love is forbidden to one who has vowed to uphold the sacred Laws of Art; yet the Cop doesn’t care that his family of Critics will not approve of this decision: he plans to go against the dictates of his father figure and continue to date a Robber.
At this point, the Robber steps out of the shadows where she was hiding, and turns herself in. She confesses to seventy-seven cat-burglaries that she’s committed since the last Jubilee Year, and she requests that she be thrown in jail with her new fling, this Cop who has just resigned from the Force, and she begs that they be allowed to share a prison cell. Preferably also this cell will come equipped with a medieval monk who knows medicine, in case they need to take a drug that would help them feign death, in order to get over the hump of certain difficulties in life, such as society in general.
So the 3rd precinct’s Captain Andy (yes, that same personage again, from the funeral scene in the 2013 film Wrong Cops) agrees to confine these star-crossed lovers to Jail Cell Thirty-Three (stylized as C-33 in most of the filmed remakes of this blog post), without charging them with the breaking of any law; and he writes in his diary that he plans to hold them indefinitely, and to never give them a free trial. And he informs the lovers that he’s sending in a request to his bureaucratic overseers that they file the two of them — this cop & his robber — in the official government registry as “terrorists” and as threats to national security. And he also grants them a monk who is skilled in the arts of quackery, in case they need any potions to help them kill themselves.
So the Cop & the Robber are locked together in solitary confinement again.
Act 2.4
Now, when Doctor Johnson, the father figure of the Art Critics Gang, gets wind of the fact that his son the Cop has been sentenced to life in jail, and that his cellmate is a common cat-burglar, he loses his wit: he flips out and goes completely bonkers. He visits the jail on a cold summer’s night and stands outside of its only window, which has metal bars on it because it’s a jail. And Doctor Johnson was so impassioned and impulsive on this occasion that he forgot to dress himself properly before he leaves his own house: so he is wearing only his undergarment — specifically, a loincloth (informally known in the U.S. as “tighty-whities”: a type of cotton briefs for men) and a loose purple bathrobe. (And by “loose” we mean that the Doctor neglected to fasten the robe’s waist-belt: thus, throughout the scene, it keeps flapping in the wind like a flag; & therefore it more closely resembles a cape than a bathrobe.)
Now, while Doctor Johnson is standing outside of their cell’s only window and berating his son the Cop for making such imprudent life-decisions, the Cop’s true friend the Robber decides that she’s had enough: She reaches into her purse and pulls out a small silver pistol. After taking a deep breath, she places its barrel between her glossy red lips, and blows: for it turns out that this seemingly deadly miniature firearm is actually a whistle that was crafted in the shape of a pistol — moreover its toot was specially designed to attract raging bulls (like a dog-whistle for bovines); therefore immediately following the Robber’s call to action, a bull comes raging forth from out of the nearby woods. The bull sees the robe of Doctor Johnson waving in the wind like the famous red cape of a matador de toros.
The bull charges. Doctor Johnson, noting the trembling of the ground, plus the noise of galloping hooves growing louder by the instant, turns around and spots the bull speeding directly toward him. Doctor Johnson flees in terror. The bull chases him home but never manages to gore him. The bull then trots back into the forest, and Doctor Johnson retires to bed after saying his prayers. The next morning, Doctor Johnson plans to set in motion an elaborate plan of revenge.
When the magistrates of the Art Critics get wind of this plot twist, they banish the Robber from the planet, forever. And when the oligarchs of the Corporate Multinationals hear about the role that the Cop played in seducing their kinswoman (Mrs. Evilman) over to the Lighter Side of the Police Force, they divest their funds from all community-driven law enforcement and move these investments exclusively to various private mercenary outfits — specifically the type that market themselves as charities while working as subcontractors for the U.S. military.
Act 2.5
So, just to be clear, the Cop and the Robber are still stuck in their jail cell with a monk. And the monk’s name is Larry Stirfry. That’s not a nickname: he was actually christened with the patronym “Larry” and the first name “Stirfry”; also his surname is “Ray” — he’s my own great uncle. All of this was recorded on his official birth certificate; and they left the date blank.
The reason for the strange first name is that his mother had a vision on the night when she conceived him: it was of a nude descending a staircase from the heavens, and she approached Miss Ray, my great uncle’s mother, who was a virgin at the time, according to her sworn testimony, and the nude approached and murmured these words in her ear very breathily:
“Tonight I shall personally plant a seed in your womb — a demonic male — and this lad shall grow up to become a master of frying. He shall fry meat, fish, & vegetables over high heat while stirring them. Thus you shall call him Stirfry Larry.”
So the Cop and the Robber approach Larry Stirfry’s cooking station, which was situated in the northwest region of their shared jail cell; and they explained their dilemma: the Cop loves the Robber, against the doctrines of the tribe of the Critics of Art that he belongs to; and the Robber loves the Cop, contra the legal advice of the Corporate Multinationals, of which gang she has been a lifelong dues-paying member.
“Could you, therefore, O Stirfry Larry,” plead the Cop & the Robber in unison, “concoct a meal that will put us into a deathlike slumber for only three days & three nights? That would give us time to get crucified and then resurrect; at that point, we could ascend skyward, after a brief spell of haunting our old chums, and find an apartment in the heavens, and split the cost of rent, so as to honor the sentence of planetary exile that the Robber has received from the global Secret Government.”
“Sure thing!” sez Larry Stirfry; “No problem at all! In fact, you could move into the same complex where my heavenly mother lived, before she descended the staircase and impregnated my earthly mother, in the vision that preceded me.” (Now he begins to prepare the meal while continuing his speech.) “I’ll just toss in some of my favorite veggies, to start. Here, let me turn on the heat to this thing… Ah! there, you can tell it’s hot enough because the flame is snow-white. Which reminds me: before adding the ‘active ingredients’, I need to chant a spell so that the meal will possess its magic deadly virtue. I’ll take a line from Emerson’s Uriel, because it seems fitting: ‘Evil will bless, and ice will burn.’ Amen. — OK, now to make a tasty meal without a whole lot of hassle. No artificial flavors, either. Only quality ingredients! (I’m obsessed with flavor, if you couldn’t tell, ha-ha-ha!) Alright, we’ve got these veggies forming the foundation of our masterwork… now I’ll just add in some skinless chicken breast, some soy sauce, some baby carrots, toasted sesame oil, and broth… Then I’ll dump in this whole fresh basket of mushrooms that I gathered from the bull-haunted woods last night… a little more soy sauce… some brown sugar… a few more chicken thighs… broccoli, zucchini… just a dash more soy sauce… & six or seven spoonfuls of local honey. Mmm, smell that! It is the perfect blend of flavor! — Now I’ll just apportion it out on these two plates, and I’ll cover them so they stay warm. Then I’ll carefully transfer them, like so, into individual to-go containers, which I’ll place into bags with handles, so that you can carry them home easier... Alrighty! I think all that’s left is just to clean up. — Now, how do you wanna pay: should I split the bill evenly? Cuz you each ordered exactly the same entrée.”
“Here, I have a credit card,” sez the Robber. “It’s not mine, but it should work. I got it from a businessman that I pickpocketed at the bullfight earlier.”
“Let’s see,” sez Larry Stirfry; “hmm… Yep! I had to swipe it twice, but it worked. The magnetic strip is a little worn out, I guess. Alright, here’s your card back. — No, you don’t need to sign the receipt, cuz it’s less than fifty caesars.”
“Say,” sez the Cop. “I beg your pardon, but how does the magic meal work, exactly? Do we just eat it, and then we’ll be technically dead for a while? Is that all? I mean, shouldn’t we at least arrange for someone to wheelbarrow us to the graveyard?”
“No, no, this cuisine is divinely benevolent — it’s designed to set in motion a cyclical ritual that is totally hassle-free,” explains Stirfry Larry. “Once you partake of the meal, it puts you automatically into a state of deepest sleep. Your heart will stop; one of your ribs will get transplanted by a competent surgeon; and you will not even need to breathe again, for three days. During that time, what’ll happen is that your respective families will find you, and they will mourn for your cadaver; then they’ll arrange for you to be embalmed, and there’s a small chance they might opt to perform an autopsy, due to the suspicious nature of your demise; but, once that’s finished, you’ll get sealed into your coffin, and they’ll hire a coachman to pilot your hearse. He’ll take you to your grave; that’s his job. The only thing that could throw a snag in our plan is if they decide to send you to the crematorium. But I wouldn’t worry about that — it sounds like both of you come from pretty traditional families: I can’t see them not wanting to give you a standard Christian burial. So, in a matter of time, you should find yourself resting in peace somewhere in a churchyard, a cliff-side tomb or mausoleum. It’ll be dank. Then, at the end of 72 hours, once the sun arises, the egg timer shall ding, and you’ll wake up refreshed. All you will need to do at that point is physically remove the grave-stone from the tomb’s entryway, & then change out of your burial-shrouds.”
“Ah, sounds great. Thanks, Stirfry Larry,” sez the Cop, while extending his arm.
“I’d rather not shake your hand, if you don't mind—” sez Larry Stirfry “—you know: the plague & all…”
“We understand,” sez the Robber, hooking the Cop by the arm in preparation to leave. “See ya, Lar!”
“You two have fun,” Larry Stirfry waves.
Then the angel of the Lord opens up the door of the cell. And she brings forth the couple & leads them out of the prison.
COMMERCIAL BREAK
[We must pay the bills, so here our story is interrupted by two advertisements...]
Billboard 1
All malefactors shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone: this is the second death. (Revelation 21:8)
Billboard 2
JEHOVAH GOD: “Look what I created. What do you see here, Ezekiel?”
EZEKIEL: “It looks like humankind has been burnt to a crisp.”
JEHOVAH GOD: “Do you think that I can’t hydrate these ashes back into sinners?” (Ezekiel 37:1-14)
[Now back to our regularly scheduled story...]
Act III
So on the night when the Cop is scheduled to marry Helen of Troy, he enjoys the drugged meal that Stirfry Larry prepared for him, and he passes out cold. When he’s only about halfway finished eating, his head drops face-first into the plate.
Samuel Johnson enters his son’s room and clutches his heart when he sees that the Cop has fainted. He lifts the Cop’s head and gives it a slap, and another hard slap; but the Cop is unresponsive. So Doctor Johnson grabs the telephone and quickly begins to make the funeral arrangements.
Meanwhile, the Robber is paging thru the morning newspaper while breakfasting on wine. Reaching the paper’s obituary section, she spots the entry for her true love and best friend, Officer J—. Her eyes widen; she empties her goblet, grabs the bottle and fills the glass again; then re-reads the news, very carefully, syllable by syllable, making doubly sure that she’s grasping this message correctly. What she first assumed appears to be true indeed: her love is in a state of suspended animation, while the world assumes that he is dead. The Robber decides therefore that it’s high time that she herself enjoyed Stirfry Larry’s masterwork:
She retrieves the plate from the freezer, microwaves it for exactly several moments; then places the dinner on the table, and sits down to eat... Taking her first bite of the reheated meal, she gasps and exclaims:
“This is really good.”
So she fervently savors the rest. Then she turns on the television: The local news is broadcasting a security-camera video of her latest bank heist. She watches herself on the screen, admiring the contours of her physique and the grace of her movements. The brief clip ends with her holding a moneybag in each hand & striding out of the shot.
Act 3.2
Finding that the meal’s deadly elixir has not yet taken effect, the Robber decides to out for a morning stroll. She leaves her house and notices that the ground is littered with leaflets inviting all the residents of the town to a grand event. She picks up the nearest brochure and reads it aloud:
“You. Are. Invited. To. . . . the wedding of Helen of Troy to Doctor Samuel Johnson’s Firstborn Officer of the Law!”
The Robber struggles for air. She clutches her heart and swoons.
Then Helen of Troy comes strolling down the boulevard like a trollop. She trips over the body of the Robber & falls to the ground. This rude jab awakens the Robber, and the women lock eyes. Both rise very slowly from their places on the cobblestone and instinctively enter into their fighting stance. In the ensuing scuffle, the Robber kills Helen of Troy.
Act 3.3
The Robber then steals a hearse, ties the corpse of Helen to its rear bumper, and drives the vehicle to the grave-site of the Cop. (She remembers his tomb’s address from the obituary notice that she read in the morning newspaper.) When she arrives at the sepulchre, she gazes at the colossal boulder that is blocking the entrance & sez to herself:
“How will I ever manage to roll away this yuge stone from this doorway?”
But upon taking a closer look, she realizes that the stone is already rolled away: for it’s just a very great shadow that’s covering the entrance, which only resembles a physical substance; so she had been mistaken about the size of the object barring the path to her best & truest friend. — The whole experience sorta reminds her of the opening scene in Eraserhead (1977), where Henry Spencer, after being levered into existence by the “Man in the Planet”, walks from the extreme foreground of the industrial wasteland toward a vast, oblong opening in the distant background.
Act 3.4
On entering the sepulchre, the Robber sees a young man leaning and loafing at his ease atop the coffin, sipping a cocktail and clothed in a cloak, which is long & multicolored. This gives the Robber a fright — for she didn’t expect this. (The rest of the drama was shot in glorious black-&-white.)
And this young man now addresses the Robber: “Don’t be scared. You are looking for Officer J—, your dead soul-mate, I presume. Well, he got cremated. There’s nothing we can do about that. Ya win some and ya lose some. But the good news (literally, the gospel) is that the Cop is risen. He is not here. Cuz cremation requires fire; and where there’s fire, there’s smoke; and smoke rises. Therefore, like you, the Cop is exiled from this globe. And I beg you to note that this word globe refers not only to the Earth, where we all continue suffering every day in ‘real life’, but also to the playhouse, where we’re currently performing these roles of ours, in this tall tale. (The Globe Theatre was built in 1599 by William Shakespeare’s playing company and burned to soot in 1613.)”
“Ah!” sez the Robber to the young man reclining on the coffin inside the Cop’s grave, “1599 to 1613, you say? I now recall a footnote from a scripture by Jorge Luis Borges, called ‘The House of Asterion’, which assures us that there is ample reason to take the numeral fourteen (and, in our present case, the unit of measurement would be years) as actually indicating infinity.”
“Sure,” sez the young man; “but time is a lie, and books are not men. Therefore, go your way: tell your readers to meet you in Hell, where your beloved awaits you: there shall ye see him, as he explained (II Sam. 12:23): You shall come to me, but I shall not return to you.”
“Did he truly say that?” asks the Robber. “I thot I just dreamt that. Seriously, I can’t remember him ever saying such a thing, except in ancient, lucid visions.”
“It was right before his second equivocal ascension — that’s when he shouted it,” claims the youth. “For, remember, first he resurrected, while still alive, having achieved the state of gnosis and thus become an illuminated consciousness; only then did he die, while enjoying Lawrence’s magnum opus; after which he rose again, on account of the flames; and finally he met the second death, which caused him to diagonally side-float for a while instead of rising straight upward — he tried hard to outsmart gravity by pretending to yield to it, in hopes of thereby infiltrating the outermost darkness, but to no avail: His final utterance, before succumbing to the post-afterlife, was ‘See you in Hell’. He was cheerful about it, tho: I sensed neither irony nor sarcasm in his tone.”
At this point, the Robber recalls the ad from the commercial break above, specifically the billboard with Ezekiel 37:13 on it — the part which saith:
And ye shall know that I am the LORD, when I have opened your tombs, O my people, and brought you up out of your graves.
“This must be the holy day that this advertisement was fulfilled!” The Robber whispered to herself. Then she left the tomb quickly and fled from the sepulchre. And she ducked into an alleyway and trembled and was amazed.
Act IV
Then, while convalescing from her epiphany, the Robber receives an instant text-message from one of her neighbors:
“Long time no see. Just noticed your lawn needs a trim.”
So she writes back:
“Thx but I am exiled from the planet.”
Yet the Robber starts to feel guilty about writing such a flippant & dismissive response; so she hitches a ride home on a motorcycle with a member of a passing Biker Gang; then steals a lawnmower and mows her lawn. — However, when she goes to return the mower to the residence of the most prominent Art Critic from whom she had stolen it, there before her she sees what looks like her old friend the Cop, risen early from Sheol (which is the name of the overlapping dimension where the dead spend their half-life): the Cop floats forth on the grass, removes seven devils from the body of the Robber, and cuffs and beats them.
Act 4.2
Now the Robber speaks a loving word to the Cop, who has arisen from the grave, while he beats the devils who continue to mourn & weep. Then the Cop, when he hears the sound of her voice, stops in mid-swing & lets his nightstick drop to the yard. (Some glow worms drag the nightstick offstage.)
“I cannot believe that you are alive,” said the Cop to the Robber. “For we ate the same meal, did we not?”
“I think that Larry failed to mix the ingredients properly; so most of the poison remained in your portion alone,” said the Robber. “For I consumed my half of the meal immediately after I saw your obituary, on Thursday morning of last week; and it tasted delicious, but all it did was make me sleepy.”
Thus the Cop & the Robber touched base & caught up on old times, as they walked together thru the countryside.
Act 4.3
And the Robber tells everyone she knows about this miracle that has occurred, how her friend the Cop has arisen a second or third time from the rear-post-afterlife. But nobody believes her.
So the Robber calls a press conference and does a town hall on live TV, which is broadcast around the whole Earth, and when the first reporter asks her the very first question, she totally dodges it and just goes straight into a long tirade against the populace of the planet: for she is angry that they do not acknowledge her marriage to the phantom son of Doctor Johnson. So, from 6 to 9 p.m. Eastern Time, she upbraids her fellow earthlings for their stubbornness and for being stiff-necked and hard-hearted.
Yet just before the conference ends, a heckler from the press corp shouts out to the Robber: “Prove these assertions!”
And the Robber angrily quips: “What is proof!?” — But then she suddenly has a change of mind: She halts, smiles, and smacks her own forehead; then she sez: “I shoulda thot of that earlier!” Then she announces:
“Give ear and behold now, for I shall perform a number of tricks, which should be taken as proof that my boyfriend (and soon-to-be husband) Officer J— of the Police Force, sole unblemished heir of Doctor Samuel Johnson, is alive in ghost-form.”
She then casts out devils from all the journalists and reporters from the different news organizations; and she makes them to speak in unknown tongues.
Then she asks if anyone happens to have a serpent in their purse; & many women & men approach the stage holding their purses high; & the Robber snatches all these purses, & cuts their straps; & she removes the snakes from each one, by lifting them carefully out from the silken interior where they’d been resting since the beginning, & the snakes do not bite her. So then she returns the snakes to their rightful owners, & the snakes all bite them forthwith, & the people drop their snakes, & they stomp on them & they bruise their heads. (But the Robber subtly keeps all the purses.)
Lastly, she sez: “Now bring me a deadly drink to sip. I guarantee that it shall not destroy me. In fact, it will only make me stronger.”
So they bring her some of the tap-water from the city, and she sips it, and the crowd audibly gasps, but the Robber does not die. (Tho she does henceforward undergo cognitive decline).
Act 4.4
The foregoing mysteries satisfy the public, therefore they agree to let the Robber wed the Cop. So, during the wedding ceremony, while walking down the aisle toward the altar, the bride high-fives all the sick & dying multitudes that have been wheeled in on platforms & gurneys to attend the proceedings against their will. And, as soon as she touches them, they all regain perfect health and begin to do the “Monster Mash” dance.
Then, after the vows are administered, the Robber declares “I do” and steals a kiss from the presiding magistrate. Then the clouds part asunder (for it is an outdoor ceremony) and the Robber is received up into the outer spaces. She is displayed on the cross at the right hand of God. And the Cop, her groom, adorns the cross to God’s left.
So it turned out to be true, what Christ prophesied to his crossmates:
Both of you bad guys shall join my father in paradise. (Luke 23:43)
Act V
DISCUSSION FOR READING GROUPS:
What was the author trying to do for herself by writing this story?
The quote that ends the piece refers to the fact that all the synoptic gospel accounts present the scene of Jesus being crucified in the middle of two thieves; but the authors of the earlier accounts, Saint Mark and Saint Matthew, choose to represent the thieves as mocking Jesus. Then Saint Luke comes along a little later and chooses to allow one of the thieves to be saved: he depicts this good thief as rebuking his fellow thief’s mockery and explaining that they, being thieves, deserve this capital punishment, whereas this man hanging in the midst of them (Jesus Christ) does not, for he has committed no sin; then this so-called Good Thief requests that Jesus remember him when he inherits his kingdom — so Jesus apparently grants this request, as he answers: “To day shalt thou be with me in paradise.”
Now, note the movement from gospel to gospel: the early tales have both thieves mocking Jesus and thus presumably dying unsaved; then Luke allows one thief to attain salvation by way of belief. Then much later John throws his hat into the ring and writes a gospel that doesn’t include this account at all. (That’s why, above, I did not say that all the gospels contained the episode, but I specified that only the synoptic gospels have it — for John’s account is not considered a synoptic gospel.) But then I Bryan decided to create the best account yet, by going back to Luke and making a major revision: I say that not just one but BOTH of the thieves shall be saved. But note how ambiguous I allow Jesus to be — he sez: “Each of you bad guys shall join my father in paradise.” So this proves that Cops and Robbers are not respectively ‘good guys’ and ‘bad guys’, but they’re all simply bad guys. And I don’t have Jesus say that they’ll join him in paradise but rather his father — implying that Jehovah God is one of the bad guys too. Plus they’re all on crosses: that’s funny, cuz we’re supposed to think of the cross as an implement of torment, which one should want to escape from into an afterlife of bliss; but my afterlife gives us a Cop and a Robber being crucified on either side of God, for all of eternity. That’s their reward! And to replace one thief with a Cop and the other with a Robber is my way of saying: law enforcers AND law breakers are equally criminal. That is to say: there’s a higher law than what we call the law which renders cops and robbers identical; it is, at once, the only law plus no law at all: I’m talking about the Poetic Genius. And, acting its arbiter in this instance, I say that ALL criminals shall be forgiven.
So that’s how I ended up improving on those earlier scriptures and making a gospel that is superior to any other in the canon (including John’s, which incidentally is the least trustworthy account, for better and worse). That’s the good news. Now here’s the bad news:
Act 5.2
I failed at what I truly wanted to do with this entry. Originally I had a very simple idea: I wanted to recap Shakespeare’s play about Romeo & Juliet, only to streamline it severely & change those two lovers into a Cop and a Robber; yet I wanted to make the tragedy into a comedy, cuz that plot point where Shakespeare’s couple tries to escape from cruel society & ends up expiring after their master-plan gets botched — that always bothers me, and every time I read the play, I always wish that the lovers could succeed and spend the rest of their lives together. Cuz I was born in Hollywood, so I have a penchant for happy endings: it’s in my blood. Thus my intention with the above writing was to have the Cop and the Robber take their fake-death potions, which would dupe their feuding syndicates, and then the pair would awake & run away to some beautiful garden, and live out their days together forever, like the two halves of God: Christ & Satan in Wonderland. But the story itself must be cursed, because when I got to the scene where the Cop eats his semi-tainted meal, although my aim was to have him awake (and I did everything in my power to plan for his revival, I swear), his family stepped in and decided it would be better to burn his body, so as to cut down on the funeral expenses; because an urn, being small, takes up less space thus costs less to store in the ancestral crypt. And they were able to accomplish this without any trouble from the State, since they were named as the executors of the Cop’s last will & testament. Then the idea of poltergeists & death-after-death beguiled my fancy, and I let the whole narrative go to shit: just like what happened to Shakespeare.
So my effort is a tragedy after all, and I’d say it’s arguably even more tragic than its source; cuz nothing’s worse than leaving both of your story’s heroes hanging on crosses with God — whether this trinity lives or dies, it’s equally awful.
Act 5.3
But maybe the crosses in paradise are not like the crosses here. For here, when you’re crucified, your creditors drive nails thru your flesh, to fasten you physically to the wood. So maybe, instead of this painful procedure, the paradisal crosses are more like that picture by Salvador Dalí (Corpus Hypercubus, 1954) where each person sorta hovers in front of his cross, and there’s floating lodestones painted the color of wood-blocks placed strategically in the air around one’s torso, so one is sustained by the force of magnetism. It might even be comfortable, like reclining in an airborne spa.
Yes, now that I think of it, I’m sure this is the case. Therefore, my ending isn’t so awful for God and my heroes. It’s almost as tho I quelled the tragedy after all: my piece is actually almost a comedy!
So it’s not altogether a failure — it just took me a lot longer to get where I wanted to go. But I got there: that’s what counts. — Now I just need to figure out how to condense the thing into a tighter, catchier presentation; cuz nobody’s gonna read thru it in its present state and exclaim: “This is far from a regular comedy: it is, in sooth, the very best comedy ever composed.”
THAT’s my goal — to get someone to react like that. Then I could die happily. And, after my death, entertainment companies could base various productions on my story, & market them so that they rake in record-high profits, while the poor stay poor.
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